


And Now, Here's Your Host

by cereal



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Tonight Show AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 02:15:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6546373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We need to pick a lane, Emma. We go full on with the internet-friendly bits and schtick, or we give the viewers another reason to watch — our numbers are too dependent on the guests right now, we want everyone tuning in every time." (a 'Tonight Show' AU with Emma as the host and Killian as the new bandleader!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Now, Here's Your Host

**Author's Note:**

> This probably should've been broken up into a few chapters, with a posting schedule, but I don't have the patience for that, so here it is in its entirety. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ This is also not /exactly/ a bday fic for this-too-too-sullied-flesh, but it's not also /not/ a bday fic, because she just wrote me five chapters of amazingness, and I am in her debt. 
> 
> If Tumblr's more your thing, you can check this out [right here](http://allrightfine.tumblr.com/post/142751960656/fic-and-now-heres-your-host-11-au-captain) over there!

She smashes the guitar and no one gets a picture of it.

Nevermind that she's rich enough (now) to buy a thousand guitars and smash them all in a row if she wants — she was given express permission to smash _this_ one — and no one took a fucking picture.

More importantly though — it had felt _good_.

Nice.

Cathartic.

Not good-nice-cathartic enough to make up for the fact that her bandleader — her _original_ bandleader, from back when they were on at 3:30 in the morning — is _leaving_ , but still...good.

(Who leaves the _Tonight Show_?)

(Elsa.)

( _Elsa_ apparently leaves the Tonight Show.)

"Is that going to be sufficient tantrum time?" Elsa asks, gesturing to the remains of the guitar, the neck still dangling from Emma's fingers. "Or will you need more?"

Emma glances at the clock, the one that shows they'll be ushering in the studio audience in less than fifteen minutes, and sighs.

"Sufficient for _now_. I can't believe you told me before a show."

Elsa reaches for the new guitar a PA is handing her. "Well, I've been trying to tell you for weeks." She sets the guitar down only to begin ticking off her attempts on her fingers.

"First, there was _no bad news on Chris Evans Day_ , second, then there was _no bad news on Chris Pratt Day_ , then there was no bad news on karaoke day, prank day, and even _grilled cheese_ day. Honestly, Emma, you really didn't leave me much of a window."

"And so you chose _today_? It's the day they restock the vending machines!"

Elsa's eyes drift to the side and Emma follows them to where Kristoff is behind his drum kit, surrounded by bags of chips and Hostess wrappers.

"Goddamn it, Kristoff, I had my quarters ready and everything."

"Not ready enough," he says, stuffing an entire Twinkie into his mouth.

"You know craft services will just stock your office with all that crap if you make them a list," Elsa says.

"I don't have time to make a list, especially now that I need to find a new bandleader," Emma says. "Besides, I like pressing the buttons, it's _satisfying_."

(That it's also satisfying to the 12-year-old inside Emma, the one left blotting up the crumbs of the free school lunch and staring longingly at the candy machine doesn't need mentioning.)

(Apparently they don't even _have_ candy in school vending machines anymore — something she'd learned from belligerent, tweeting mothers one of the rare times she'd tried to get personal in a monologue. Serves her right.)

"Fine, but the weekly Skype calls I've already had Belle put on your calendar are not to be used to talk about snack food."

"You're really leaving then?"

"I'm really leaving," Elsa pauses, taking a breath. "Emma, I can't tell you what it meant to me that you gave me a chance, but...I — I want to play my own music now, and it's because of _you_ that I can."

"All right, all right, that's enough of that, you know you'll always have a home here."

"I do — it's where _both_ of my sisters still live, after all. Blood and otherwise."

"You're such a sap," Emma says, nudging Elsa's shoulder with the broken guitar. "Speaking of Anna — she, um...she doesn't think that she'll...?"

"Be the next bandleader by default?"

"Yeah."

Elsa laughs. "No, no, I think her stint filling in that week I had the flu was enough for her."

"Oh, god, good, you know — I really didn't think she could talk _more_ , but you put a camera on her and _**poof!**_ off she goes."

"I know, Charlize Theron hasn't been on since."

"Much to your dismay," Emma teases.

"That's why I need to write my own music. She'll be sure to notice me when 'Marry Me, Charlize' tops the charts."

"Oh, it's chart-topping now, is it? No longer reserved for only those of us privy to drunk-Elsa-near-a-guitar?"

"Chart-topping, record-breaking...hell, maybe you'll be having both of us on, so I can play the song and we can announce our engagement."

"I wish you two crazy kids the best of luck. You especially."

"I know you do, Emma. And besides, who knows, this new bandleader might be the one to write 'Marry Me, _Emma_.'

"Yeah, right."

&&.

On a scale of zero to 'Marry Me, Emma,' the new bandleader is somewhere around 'literal fistfight to the death.'

Smug, arrogant, abrasively handsome — Killian is almost the exact opposite of Elsa in every way.

Which — to hear Mary Margaret tell it — is sort of exactly the point.

"We need to pick a lane, Emma. We go full on with the internet-friendly bits and schtick, or we give the viewers _another_ reason to watch — our numbers are too dependent on the guests right now, we want everyone tuning in _every_ time."

"And they'll tune in for Killian?"

"Some of them will, yeah — I know you have eyes, Emma. And some of them will tune in for your rapport. You know I love Elsa, but she was never big on banter."

"I don't think getting into an argument — about fucking _hamburger toppings_ , of all things — on his debut show qualifies as 'banter.'"

"Well, no, you're right, it doesn't, but it does qualify as something else, it's —"

"If you say 'sexual tension,' I will vault over this desk and muzzle you."

"— sexual tension."

Emma makes a show of standing, toeing her loafers off like she really is going to climb over the wood separating them.

"Oh, sit down. Think of it as a storyline — a will they/won't they to keep viewership up."

"They _won't_ ," Emma says decisively, slipping her shoes back on, but not bothering to sit, just on principle.

"Come on, Emma, it's not _that_ bad — _he's_ not that bad. You helped pick him, after all."

"Yeah, because you didn't bring me in until the final round, when it was between him, that guy that wanted us to call him 'The Wizard of Oz' and rename the band 'the Munchkins' —"

"Walsh."

"Yeah, and _Jefferson_ , who literally came to the meeting in a velvet top hat and _definitely_ strung out on something. Just because Killian was the lesser of those evils, doesn't meant he's not _an_ evil."

"Emma..."

"What?" Emma's hands find her hips, because she's regretting her decision not to sit, but can't find a way to do it now without drawing attention to it.

"Gold wanted Neal."

"Of fucking course he did."

"And that we didn't even consider him was not well-received."

Emma throws her hands up, not even sure why they're having this conversation. "He's the damn president of the network, he could've forced the issue if he wanted to."

"He did."

"Wait, what?"

"He _did_ force the issue."

"So — why? How did we get Killian?"

"I told him if my selection — our selection — didn't improve our numbers by at least 20 percent, he could have my resignation."

The corners of Emma's vision white-out, or black-out, or just go all fuzzy, until all she can see she is Mary Margaret, sitting in the faded chair in front of her desk, frame tensed for a fight. "You did _what_?"

"This is exactly why I didn't tell you — I knew you'd be upset."

"Which part _exactly_ do you think I'm upset about? Because if you think the idea of having to be around Neal upsets me anywhere near as much as the thought of you _resigning_ , you're crazier than I thought you were."

(The Neal wounds have healed, mostly. But it's only because Mary Margaret was there for triage. Losing her...that's just — that's unfathomable.)

Mary Margaret takes a breath, like she's considering one thought and then dismissing it. "Well, we'll just have to make sure this works, won't we?"

"Mary Margaret..."

" _No_ , Emma. No. You and I both know what's at stake here. This _will_ work."

It's the mention of the stakes that finally grounds Emma from the way she's pinballing around from thought to thought, Neal to Killian to Elsa to her _family_ , _their_ family, this little ragtag group that made it from the depths of late night to the big show, the first woman _ever_ to hold the job, and it's only because of the team behind her (and literally in front of her) that's she here at all.

She won't fuck it up.

(She won't fuck Killian either.)

(But she won't fuck it up.)

&&.

The taping schedule is basically murder on her internal clock.

They go to great lengths to make the middle of the afternoon seem like the dark of night within the studio, and it works well enough that every day feels like a Las Vegas casino, emerging from a bender with no idea how you spent the last several hours or any concept of time until you make it outside.

Except she knows how she spent her time — _working_.

And because of that, when it really _is_ night, her body thinks she should be working.

So, she reads, or cooks, or drinks, or online shops for clothing Ruby and the rest of the wardrobe department won't let her wear on-air.

(There are pictures of Tina Fey all over wardrobe, pictures from ten years ago now, but that still routinely test highest in the research on 'female TV personality' aesthetics, and putting her contacts in every morning is the best she can do in the way of defiance.)

She doesn't actively _avoid_ watching her own show, but it's not ever at the top of her list either, because it's never _just_ watching.

It becomes a forum for critique, she's slouching, her voice sounds funny, she didn't realize just how uncomfortable Bill Murray looked during her Caddyshack impressions.

Tonight, though...tonight, she stops.

She hears the opening intro, hears Leroy's voice announcing the guests, the band, and she leaves it on.

It's not a bad line up, Jonah Hill and Susan Sarandon and some indie band she can't remember the name of but that Killian went on and on about in the rundown meeting.

That's really why she stops — Killian.

It's only been a week since his debut show and the now infamous hamburger topping argument. Mary Margaret's turned it into a recurring gag — every Monday they'll get burgers from a different place, with toppings of the other's choosing.

Today's show — the one airing right now — had been the first, and she'd been subjected to Shake Shack covered in a huge handful of cherry peppers. She'd muscled it down through willpower alone — well, that and the image of Killian nearly gagging over the mayo she'd had dumped on his.

It's a stupid bit, it really is, but there's...something to the way they interact. There's chemistry there, as much as she wishes there weren't.

But then she remembers the conversation with Mary Margaret, the one that sneaks up on her all the time now, that says she has to make this work or it's all over, she'll have brought herself down, and her friends — her _family_ — with her.

It's a daunting enough thought to make her really lean in toward her TV now, scrutinizing Killian. He's not a _bad_ guy, or he doesn't seem it.

She'd googled a little during the interviews, background on all the men up for the job — and that, there, should've been a red flag, an entire staff full of feminists — Emma at the forefront — and they'd only interviewed _men_.

Not that she couldn't have sexual tension with a woman — just because _Elsa_ didn't get a chance to flirt with Charlize Theron doesn't mean _Emma_ passed it up.

She's sure fucking _Archie_ had tested for that possibility though, he's probably got a forty-slide Powerpoint deck somewhere on how Emma isn't allowed to be marketably bisexual with Ellen still on the air. There's probably a graph, some Kinsey scale network TV axis of sex, and she lets herself get lost in that thought until the elevated volume of the commercial break snaps her out of it.

 _Right_ , she was watching the show. Her actual life. Her actual bandleader.

He'd seemed...fine, in all that googling. Ex-navy lieutenant who went on to lose X Factor, but was handsome enough to parlay it into quiz show appearances and the eye of the British tabloids.

And now, apparently, a permanent gig in America, alongside her.

She'd gone down the rabbit hole a little farther with him than the others, finding those tabloids, the few dust ups he'd gotten in, the ex-lovers and scandals, but there was nothing of substance, nothing to set off her warning bells.

And, even if it's only been a week, he _still_ hasn't managed to set off her warning bells — atrocious taste in hamburger toppings aside.

Maybe she should give him a chance, move beyond well-behaved in front of the cameras, and into...well, friends couldn't hurt, could it?

Yeah. _Hell_ yeah. Friends. She'll try for friends.

&&.

"You know, I wouldn't piss on you if you were on _fire_."

"All right, love, so what I'm hearing is that there _are_ circumstances where you _would_ piss on me, just not in the event of a fire."

"What? What the fuck?"

"I have to say, I haven't much fancied the thought of water sports in past, but if that's what you're into, I'd —"

"Keep talking and the only pissing you're going to be doing is into a catheter."

"Would that be covered under our health insurance? I'm still a little unclear on the benefits package here. For example, it's quite apparent that therapy isn't included, or you'd already be taking advantage of some anger management courses."

"I don't need _anger management_. I need for my bandleader to not fight me on every — single — thing."

Killian smiles at her, shifting one of the toys on her desk to face him in the guest chair.

It's a little Han Solo action figure and she can  tell — she can just fucking _tell_ — that he thinks of himself as the Han Solo type.

"It's not every _single_ thing, love. Just the things I feel passionate about."

"And you feel passionate about — what? At least ten things a day?"

He smirks, raising an eyebrow. "What can I say? I'm a passionate man."

"Yeah? Well, direct your _passion_ elsewhere on this one. This is my show and if I don't want to do Haunted House Week with you, I'm not going to do Haunted House Week with you."

There's a rustling movement below the desk and then Killian's messenger bag is on his lap. He slips a fat, spiral-bound presentation out of it — Archie's handiwork, no doubt — and slaps it on to the desk before shoving his bag back to the floor.

"I'm not looking at that."

"Why? Is it because you know it'll prove we ought to do this together?"

"I don't care what research from the fucking Ellen show says, as I _just_ mentioned, this is my show and we'll do it my way. I'm going with Mary Margaret. She lives for those things anyway."

"Ah, yes, locking us in your office and demanding we reach a solution sounds exactly like she's _living for it_."

It's...true that Mary Margaret hadn't seemed as excited as usual about the annual Haunted House Week and it's also true that there's maybe a slight swell to Mary Margaret's stomach and a slight bounce in David's step and — ugh.

She drops her head to her hand, groaning in annoyance.

"Now, Swan, listen, the research clearly indicates that this type of thing is much more well received when the pair is a male/female one. I can only imagine what my being devilishly handsome will add, so I have to deduce that it's something else standing in your way, you wouldn't — perhaps — be scared, would you?"

"Wow, this is great, so not only are you fighting me, you haven't even done your homework. The _research_ — by which I mean actual, broadcast past shows — clearly indicates that not only am I _not_ scared, I'm actually prepared to fight my way out. Remind me to send you some of the work YouTube has done with those clips. There's a great remix set to H.A.M that I think you'll really enjoy."

At this, he grins, a smirking, knowing, little grin that instantly has her on edge.

"Oh, Swan, Swan, Swan, not only have I done my homework, I've done the extra credit. There's a moment — see if you can recall it — a show about...three years ago, maybe? A little haunted house in the middle of Maine, plenty of ghosts and goblins and ghouls, but there's one room —"

Fuck. Fucking goddamn fucking hell. He's got her.

"— a room with _zombies_. Could it be, our fearless leader Emma Swan has an Achilles heel after all? Felled by the walking dead?"

"I don't like you."

Killian's eyes light up and it's clear he knows he's won. "Aww, come now, is that any way to speak to the man who'll be protecting you from Zombie Outbreak Hospital?"

"You're kidding me — you're kidding me, right? That's not on the list."

He smiles again, teeth bared and white. "Not only is it on the list, it's the very first one."

Shit.

&&.

The day they're to shoot Zombie Outbreak Hospital is also the same day that her first Skype with Elsa is scheduled.

They do these in bits and pieces throughout the beginning of October, filming where they can, until they have a bank of them for the week of Halloween.

It usually requires a drive or a flight, and sometimes an overnight stay, picking their way across the east coast to find the scariest haunted houses.

This is how she finds herself in a hotel room in North Carolina on a Monday morning, bags already re-packed next to her and bed in disarray, listening to the ringing noise of Skype trying to connect a call.

When it finally does, Elsa's face fills the screen, looking bright and shit-eating.

"Good morning, Emma," she says. "How's the new bandleader?"

(Great, super great, just right into it then.)

"Hi, Elsa, I'm fine, thanks for asking, weather here's been unseasonably warm. Kristoff won our fantasy baseball league, which is a shock, considering I'm pretty sure Anna picked his team based on butts and how fun players names are to say. There's a new taco truck that keeps setting up just down the —"

"That good, huh?"

"Yeah, it's delicious, they do this carnitas thing that's just —"

" _Emma_."

"Elsa."

"Come on, that's my legacy, you can at least tell me how it's going, I mean, it _looks_ good, but —"

Emma sighs, relenting. "Fine, I'm gonna kill him."

"Kill..." Elsa says, drawing out the vowel, "or kiss?"

"Uh, lemme think — yep, yep, it's kill."

"You have to admit he's handsome."

"So is Vladimir Putin, that doesn't excuse the —"

"Wait, wait, wait." On screen, Elsa draws her hands up, a stopping motion to hold Emma back. "You're comparing the hot guy with a guitar on stage with you to _Vladimir Putin_. Oh, Emma — you've got it bad."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You do though." On the screen, Elsa sits back in her desk chair, crossing her arms in a way that makes her look haughty and regal, like she's got the final word on the matter.

"Elsa, I've barely known him a month, the only thing I like about him is that he shares his Red Bull."

"Oooh, like from the same can? Are you sharing your cooties?"

Emma rolls her eyes. "No, like he has an extra, and he gives it to me."

"And does he share his Red Bull with anyone else? In the life sense?"

"He's single. And he'll stay that way, if I have anything to say about it."

"Ahhh, that explains Friday's show then."

"No, it doesn't it — what? Wait, what? What about Friday's show?"

"During the Selena Gomez performance, the camera cut back to you just as she was nudging Killian to sing into the mic with her. You did _not_ look happy."

Emma thinks back to taping on Friday afternoon, all that 'can't keep my hands to myself-ing' happening across the stage and shit, _shit_ , she _did_ make a face, didn't she?

It was just — well, who the fuck knows what it was, actually. She'd seen a beautiful, talented woman with her face right next to Killian's and she'd just...reacted.

She'd have done the same if she were trying to sing with David, probably.

Probably. Definitely. Probably.

Still, it's not like she can't admit literally any of that to Elsa, so she fumbles for an excuse.

"Yeah, I'm still getting used to having our band center stage for musical guests. I don't think it's working — what do you think?"

" _I_ think you're in the grips of one of those instant connections people are always talking about. There's something there, Emma. I can see it, and so can the audience. What are your numbers like?"

Emma looks away from the MacBook camera, clearing her throat over her words. "Up two percent."

"What was that? They're _up_?"

"...yes."

"See? Not just me. What's coming up for you guys? Should be Halloween filming soon, right? Mary Margaret getting excited?"

"I think Mary Margaret's pregnant, actually."

"What?! Oh my god, oh, that's so exciting, I'm so happy for them."

"Yeah, they haven't announced it officially, but I'm like, 95 percent sure. But anyway, that means she's not doing the houses with me this year."

"Really? Who is? Please tell me you're not taking Anna, those screams will definitely violate some FCC law."

Emma laughs, "No, no, it's, uh. It's Killian, actually. First one's this afternoon, I'm in a hotel." She turns the computer around so Elsa can see the room and when she brings it back to center, Elsa's eyes are still searching the corners of the screen.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for Killian."

"He's not here."

"Just popped out to pick up breakfast then? Does he know you like cinnamon on your hot chocolate?"

"You know I learned how to delete a recurring meeting last week?"

"What?"

"Recurring meetings on my calendar, I learned how to delete them — turns out you have to select to delete the _series_ , not just the _occurrence_."

"O...kay."

"Yeah, so if you don't knock it off with this, I'm gonna delete the whole series of these Skype dates."

Elsa shakes her head. "All right, all right, easy there, tiger. That's fine, let's talk about me — I'm going in studio in next week."

"Elsa! Why didn't you lead with that? I'm so proud of you!"

And she is, she's so, _so_ proud of Elsa that they talk for another thirty minutes, right up until there's a knock on the door and Emma answers it, unthinkingly leaving the laptop open with a view of the door as Emma opens it.

It's Killian and before Emma can react, Elsa is literally shouting at him from the MacBook screen. "Hey! Hey you, come here, I wanna talk to you."

Killian looks sideways at Emma for a protest, but slips into the room and makes his way to the computer anyway.

"Uh, hello?" he says, bending down to lean on the desk chair until he's in frame.

"Yeah, hi, listen, are you being nice to Emma?"

"What?"

"Are you being nice to Emma?"

"I believe so, love."

"Good, you better keep it up, because if you hurt her —"

Killian scratches behind his ear, looking back and forth between Emma near the door and Elsa on the screen.

"Um. Is this a typical workplace lecture or...?"

Elsa doesn't respond to that, just splits her fingers and points at her eyes before pointing them back at the camera lens and Killian. "Watching you, Jones."

"Yes, every night at 11:30, I'd imagine."

"Right," Emma says, striding across the room and snatching up the laptop. "That's enough of that, goodbye, Elsa, love you, talk soon." And with that she slams the lid shut, shoving the computer into her bag.

"She seems...nice." Killian says, shifting his weight between his feet.

"She's my best friend and more of a bandleader than you'll ever be," Emma snaps.

"All right, I can see we're in for a lovely afternoon."

"Sorry," Emma mumbles.

"It's fine, Swan, nothing to worry about. Probably just nerves. The zombies are waiting, you know."

"Yeah," she says. "I know."

&&.

The business of scouting the haunted house locations is typically done early in the year, as the house operators assemble their "scares," and then the logistics of the actual filming takes most of September, but Emma rarely sees what she's in for until the afternoon of shooting.

It's arguably the worst part, "scare artists" half in costume, posing for photos and assuring Emma they're gonna be the most frightening one the show's done yet.

They never let her or Mary Margaret in the actual house early, just the lone camera guy — almost always August, so impervious to jump scares that he's practically wooden, and that's who's sitting next to her now, while Killian circles the small break room, taking pictures with the undead — almost all _female_ undead.

"So, I think that about covers it, we'll see you back here at 7 sharp, and get you through before doors open to the public at 8," Jack, the guy in charge of the house, says. His business cards say his name is Jack O'Lantern, but Emma saw the insurance waiver half an hour ago — his last name is Carson.

Just like Johnny.

Which is great, one more reminder of how she better fucking make this work.

Before she can spiral into another bout of whatever existential crisis she's going to have this week, Killian's at her side, ushering her out the door and toward the car.

"Come on, we gotta go, I told Mary Margaret we'd have it posted by 5."

August is trailing behind them, but he'll stay here, doing camera tests, so Emma's a little confused, until he turns to Killian.

"Let me do the —" he glances down at his phone, finger tracing the screen. "— the Big Double burger with a side of hushpuppies."

Killian slips his own phone out of his pocket, and taps the order into a blank note. "All set, mate, we'll be back with it in a bit."

"Back with what? Back from where?"

"Uh, the burger place? It's Burger Madness Monday."

"No, oh my god, are you serious? _No_. That was supposed to be the one good thing about filming today. We don't even have a new show tonight."

"That's right, love, we don't," Killian says, slipping into the driver's side of their rental car while she moves into the passenger seat. "But what we do have — what _I_ have — are the log-ins for all the social media accounts. We're gonna film ourselves at..." He flips the visor open, grabbing the printed-out menu tucked there and handing it to her. "...Cook-Out, and post it online."

She doesn't respond, instead digging in her bag for her phone, until she feels Killian's hand on her shoulder.

"If you're planning to call Mary Margaret, she said she had a doctor's appointment today and not to bother her unless one of us is on fire."

Emma's eyes skitter to the cigarette lighter in the center console.

"Now, Swan, you can't _light_ me on fire, especially since we've already established you won't be urinating on me to put me out, so let's just do this."

There's no clear exit strategy here, mostly because she wasn't given enough time to prepare one, and instead she shoves her purse to the floor and wrestles her seatbelt into place before glancing at the menu. "Fine."

&&.

From where she's sitting, Killian looks great — tight black jeans, trim-fitting plaid shirt, and a wincing pucker on his face to rival a Warheads wrapper.

"You know, you're just letting the taste soak in, keeping it in your mouth like that," she tells him, making sure to keep her phone steady in her hand to capture all of this.

With a deep pull of his soda — a Mr. Pibb, ugh — Killian gulps all of it down in one go, a big enough swallow that Emma's distracted by the working of his throat muscles as he struggles through it. Does she remember how to do the Heimlich? If so, that guy in the Duke hat could probably hold the camera for her, right? Maybe the girl in the striped shirt?

"What the fu— _heck_ was on that, Swan?" Killian says, swiping at his mouth, and then his actual tongue, with a stack of napkins.

"Coleslaw."

"You are not a very nice person."

"Really? And this," she gestures to her own burger wrapped up in front of her, "is just a plain hamburger, ketchup and mustard only, no surprises, no disgust?"

"Well, uh." He scratches behind his ear. "No, not _quite_."

"Exactly," she says, handing him the phone. "Here, let's get this over with."

She takes a big sip of her Coke, swishing it around in her mouth — maybe she can form a protective soda layer to whatever he'd had put on this burger.

"Ready," she says, looking down the lens of the phone's camera. "Go."

With a deep breath, she unwraps the foil on the burger, bringing it quickly to her mouth before she can get a whiff of whatever he's done to it.

One big bite and — oh. Oh, no, fuck, fuck, it's _pickles_ , it is so, so, so many pickles, and oh, god, is that tomatoes? What kind of unholy slimy texture hell is she living in, oh, Christ.

With a hard glare at Killian, she continues chewing, trying to get it soft enough that she can swallow and be done. In front of her, Killian is laughing so hard that the camera is shaking in his hand.

"This is disgusting," she says around the food, and a little bit of pickle flies loose, landing on the back of Killian's free hand.

She reaches to flick it off, and he reflexively moves the camera to follow her movement, tracking the way her hand moves to touch his, and then back to her face.

His "sending it down with liquid" trick is worth a try, so she takes a gulp of her Coke and manages to muscle down the bite, slumping back into her chair when it's finally gone.

"Well done, Swan," he says, and she can tell he's speaking loud and clearly enough that he means for the camera to pick it up. "Here's your treat."

She feels her face screw up at that — her treat?

"What?"

He reaches back to the table behind him, empty save for the bag sitting on it. He grabs the bag and removes a little paper wrapper full of crisp, golden onion rings.

"Oh my god, are you serious? These are for me?"

"You were a trooper, Swan. I'm proud."

He leans in close to her, angling the camera so that it gets both of them, before speaking again. "This was Monday Burger Madness with the Tonight Show, don't forget to follow, like, favorite, and share for more great —"

"Disgusting," she cuts in, nudging him with her shoulder.

"— more _disgusting_ content. See you tomorrow!"

With that, he taps the button to stop the recording.

"Did you really get me these? Did Mary Margaret tell you to do that?"

He's on his phone, presumably uploading the video to wherever he's meant to upload it, but he shakes his head. "No, I just thought it'd be nice."

"Oh. Uh. Thanks."

"No problem," he says, still tapping at his phone.

She snags an onion ring, chewing thoughtfully while peering at the order counter and the menu above it. It looks like they have milkshakes, like a _lot_ of milkshakes, and with a final glance at Killian, she grabs her wallet and heads toward it.

A few minutes later, she's sitting back down with the shake just as Killian sets his phone on the table.

"Posted," he says, leaning back in his chair.

She slides the milkshake across the tabletop to him, being careful not to spill the lidless cup.

He peers down at the green and black shake, one eyebrow raised. "What's this?"

"That's yours. Well done you, too."

He looks up at her. "Is this — is this Oreo mint?"

"Yep."

"How could you possibly have known...?"

She shrugs, trying to decide if the truth — that she'd found his old Instagram account two weeks ago and spent twenty minutes scouring it back to the beginning, where it included a photo of mint chip ice cream — is worth it.

But the way he's looking at her, with something like marvel, decides it for her. She can't encourage this.

"Like half the planet says mint chip is their favorite, I took a guess."

He swirls the straw through the thick shake, hmm-ing as he does it.

"What's the other half?"

"Rocky road," she says.

"And which half are you?"

She swipes a finger through the ice cream, popping it in her mouth before saying decisively, "Rocky road."

"I'll remember that," he says.

"You don't need to," she says, reaching for another onion ring and shoving the pickle-topped burger out of her way. "Here, let's finish this stuff, grab August's food, and then we can head back."

"Aye, aye, Captain."

&&.

Despite the fact that she's been in the shitty, dim-lit break room of this place, and potentially seen the guy slowly lumbering toward her in full zombie gear heat up a fucking Hot Pocket, she is still Not Okay.

They'd dropped August's food off and headed over to a nearby coffee shop to get some work done before 7, but now they're back, it's dark out, and the whole place just looks...menacing.

It's truly a hospital, albeit an abandoned one that they're only leveraging two floors of, but it's creepy as hell and she wants the fuck out before they've even gone in.

Killian's at her side, waiting patiently as August mics him up.

They actually sort of match — her and Killian — something she hadn't realized until Ruby had sent her screenshots of the YouTube comment section that gleefully pointed it out.

Plaid shirts, black jeans, they're both even in fucking _Vans_ — Killian, presumably for style, and her because she can run in these shoes if she needs to. Her Nikes are in her suitcase in the car, literally built for running, but she can't put them on now, not without drawing attention to it.

For a brief moment in that coffee shop, she'd thought the scariest part of her day was going to be the rest of those internet comments — the ones analyzing the way she'd touched Killian's hand, his inflection when he'd said, "Swan," numerous mentions of the word, "shipping."

It's actually exactly what Mary Margaret had wanted, viewers tuning in because of them, and not because of fucking Selena Gomez.

(Who was actually a very nice woman, and Emma needs to _chill_.)

But now, faced with this zombie hospital, she'd take thirty pages of goddamn _fanfiction_ about her and Killian first.

August finishes with Killian's mic, double-checking Emma's before announcing that they're clear.

They meet up with Jack at the entrance, lit mostly by moonlight and a few ambiance-y flickering lights above the door, as he goes over the rules: the actors may touch you, you may not touch them.

"May we touch each other?" Killian asks, all low and gravely and more for her benefit than Jack's, she's sure.

"Absolutely," Jack says, in the same moment that Emma says, "In your dreams, buddy."

Killian raises an eyebrow, turning to August. "You've got a time clock on that thing, right, mate?" He nods at the camera perched on August's shoulder.

"I do," August confirms.  

"Wonderful," Killian says. "Two minutes, Swan."

"What?"

"Two minutes or less and you'll be touching this," he gestures down the length of his body, "with that," he gestures at her. "August and his clock will be the judge, and the loser owes the winner $50 and a palatably topped hamburger."

She lifts her eyes to the hospital, the periodic screaming soundtrack echoing from inside, and thinks over all her past haunted house experiences with Mary Margaret. They practically carry each other through them, taking turns leading, clinging to one another, and she doesn't _actually_ see a way out of this where she's not going to touch Killian in some capacity, but still she says —

"You're on."

It's only two minutes, right? No bet beyond that.

Jack nods to August and then radios into the building for actor places, a few, long, anxiety-filled moments later and he gives them the all clear to enter, August ducking in ahead of them to get in place.

When he's gone, and the door's shut again, Killian winks at her, reaching for the handle and swinging it wide open. "Good form to let a woman enter first, Swan."

She scowls at him, but makes her way through the door and into the dark foyer. As soon as she hears the door slam shut behind her and feels Killian at her side, the lights flicker on, bright white and jarring, to illuminate a blood-streaked message painted on the floor in front of them.

 **KEEP OUT**  
**DEAD INSIDE**

"Is that 28 Weeks Later or The Walking Dead?" Killian says low and warm, right into her ear.

"I wouldn't know," she grits out. "Let's just get this over with." She stomps toward the second set of doors opposite them, where August is standing, camera trained on them.

"As you wish." Killian jogs to catch up to her and stands at her shoulder, so their shirts are brushing.

He's warm and solid and he smells like a man, all expensive and spicy and musky and clean; he smells like someone she's absolutely prepared to use as a shield.

They nod at August to go through first and then they follow, Emma adjusting her stride until she's walking in lockstep with Killian.

"Scared, Swan?"

"Hardly," she says, but the word derails into a shout as the light down the hall flicker on and off, displaying a horde of zombies in scrubs, all bloody and gruesome and moving their way — moving their way fucking _fast_.

She freezes, eyes assessing the narrow walls of the hallway, but there's no escape.

Next to her, Killian's gone tense, angling his body slightly in front of her.

"Talk," August hisses from behind the camera.

Oh, right, that's part of this, they're supposed to be entertaining.

"Don't worry, Swan, I'll protect you," Killian says, loud enough for the camera and mics to pick it up clearly.

She ignores him in favor of the way her fear is sparking her indignation. "Who picked this one? Was it David? David, I'm gonna kill you. What the fuck, why are they moving so fast?"

"And there's the first censor beep," Killian says, dancing out of the way of a bloody digestive tract that swings down from the ceiling.

"There's gonna be a whole lot more," Emma seethes. The doctor zombies are at August's back now, dutifully ignoring him as they've been instructed to, and that should be a comfort, these are actors, actors who can take stage direction, and yet —

"Go, go, go," she shouts. "Just get through it."

The zombies crowd tight around them, and up close the make up is incredible, just fucking terrifying as they growl and breathe and generally scare the shit out of her.

They make it through the crowd and though she can hear them behind her, she pushes on, checking her peripheral vision for Killian as she marches forward.

A door that says 'LAB' slams open and a zombie in a scientist coat bangs his way out of it, holding a beaker filled with blood. He growls at them, and then pours the blood directly on the ground in front their feet, making Emma dance away, right into Killian's arm. She grabs it, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling the limb to her chest in a way that brings her in contact with almost the entire side of his body.

"Time!" Killian shouts, apparently undisturbed by the blood and the fucking salivating monster in front of them.

August glances up quickly, giving Killian a thumbs up, and whatever — what. the. fuck. ever. — that's fifty bucks lost, but now she's going to use him however she sees fit.

"I'll give you five _hundred_ to get me out of here right now!"

"Come on, Swan, you can do it." Killian ushers her along, a little shuffle step as the scientist appears to literally be sniffing them.

He turns away and groans down the hallway, "Living!" and it's like the magic word, all the doors she can see, on either side of the hallway, fly open, and patients pour out, zombies in hospital gowns filling the hallway like some sort of biblical plague.

They've got bloody IV stands and bloody wheelchairs and syringes and fucking _bed pans_ and she can't help but hold Killian's arm tighter, half closing her eyes and half squinting for an exit.

"That's it, that's it, keep going," Killian soothes, and it works — a little — until from an alcove neither one of them had seen, a little child zombie zips out, feral and fast, circling their legs.

"Bloody fucking hell," he yelps, and even as he turns away, his body blocks Emma's.

It's an adrenaline-filled nightmare after that, hall after hall and room after room of zombies around a loose hospital theme. Oddly, the cafeteria is one of the worst parts, trays of disgusting entrails being flung around while a woman who looks exactly like Emma's old lunch lady eyes her and Killian like she's prepared to serve them as lunch.

She'd curled into Killian's chest so aggressively in the library, her hand going to the front of his shirt, that she'd literally torn a button off, but it had been so bad, just _so_ bad, that she almost couldn't move, and he'd been there, brushing a hand down her back, telling her they'd move in her own time.

Where the past haunted houses with Mary Margaret had been fun _and_ scary, Killian was right, there's just something about zombies for her, and by the time they reach what has to be near the end, she's mostly just pissed and afraid, her fear manifesting in overly clenched fists and a snarl on her lips.

Which is why she doesn't realized she's being hustled into a closet until it happens.

They're crowded up against a door, zombies in nurse costumes with gross open sores on their faces pushing them closer and closer until the door gives and then slams shut.

Emma can hear pounding on the other side of the door get louder and then stop entirely, replaced by the noise of the door locking, but there's not much room for anything else in the closet, not even August.

She glances up to see the small blinking red light that indicates one of his mounted night-vision cameras and she lifts her middle finger toward it, the movement jostling Killian.

There's only a couple feet between them and she's suddenly aware of the ringing in her ears and the pounding in her chest, all of it seeming overloud in the small space.

"Swan, how you doing? You hanging in there?"

Before she can respond, she feels something brush her ass. Her gaze darts to Killian in what she's going to tell herself is outrage, but her eyes have adjusted to the darkness and she can see both of his hands.

Then it happens again, harder this time, across her entire back.

"What the **_fuck_**!" she shouts, jumping away from the wall as the same time as Killian jerks away from the one behind him.

"Are the walls moving? What kind of sadistic —"

She can't finish the thought because then the wall opposite the door is moving, too, the entire thing seeming to push out at the seams until they're forced together into the middle of the room.

They're awkwardly standing with their arms at their sides, but the walls keep moving out.

"Is it —" Killian starts. "I mean, um — can I...?"

She grabs his hands, tugging them around her waist, before setting her own around his shoulders, and she thinks it must look like they're slow dancing.

"Leave room for the Holy Ghost," Killian says, swaying them a bit on their feet, and she huffs out a breath that he'd had the same thought.

"If I thought the Holy Ghost would get me out of here, believe me, I would."

He laughs at that, his breath tickling the hair on the top of her head.

"How long do you think they're gonna leave us in here?" she asks, trying to ignore the fact that she's in a dark, quiet, cramped room with someone apparently half the internet wants her to make out with.

"Waiver said the experience could take up to four hours."

"What? Seriously?"

He nods, the movement drawing attention to the way her hands have ended up the hair at the back of his head. "Yeah, didn't you read it?"

"Uh, no."

"I can't imagine they'll leave _us_ in here that long, but I guess they could."

"This is fucking stupid. I can't believe people pay $40 to do this voluntarily."

"No? Well, what kinds of things does Emma Swan like about Halloween then?"

"Candy."

"Which kind?" His voice is soothing and measured and she can tell he's doing it on purpose, trying to calm her down before they're thrust back into what is actually shaping up to look exactly like one of her nightmares.

"The pink kind."

"The _pink_ kind?"

She nods and can't stop herself from leaving her forehead against his shoulder, breathing in the way Killian smells instead of the unbearably authentic antiseptic smell they're pumping in. He's so fucking _solid_ , it's, like, super effective.

"Yeah," she mumbles into his shirt. "Strawberry Laffy Taffy and strawberry Starbursts."

"But rocky road ice cream?"

She snorts. "Yeah, I'm a complex lady."

"I won't argue with that, Swan."

The pressure at her back seems to be abating, receding slowly back into the wall, and Killian must notice, too, because he says into her hair, "I think they're gonna let us out of here."

"I think you're right."

"What do you say, make a dead sprint for it?"

"Was that a pun?" She taps at the back of his head lightly.

"Not in your hour of need, I swear it."

"All right, then, yeah, let's run for it."

The door lock scrapes back open and the door swings wide on its own as Emma drops her hands from Killian's shoulders.

"Ready? he says, leaning his head out into the hallway.

She grabs his right hand with her left, weaving their fingers together. "Let's go," she says.

With a quick nod at August, who begins backing up rapidly, they tear out of the closet and into a full run, whizzing by zombies who clearly thought they were going to have more to do.

Some endeavor to try and run after them, but they've got a good rhythm going, Killian's hand tight around hers, and instead Emma ends up laughing, shouting out her words in between. "Mary Margaret's gonna kill me."

"At least it wasn't the zombies," Killian whoops, barreling them through the door marked EXIT and into the moonlight outside.

August is a few feet in front of them, camera still on, but his cell phone now in hand, and Emma can see his chest rising and falling as he pants. She's gonna owe him a bottle of something old and expensive for the way they made him run — _backward_ — with that gear on.

Killian looks down the barrel of the camera and with the hand still holding hers, he lifts it into the air like she's won a boxing match.

"The victor," he says, beaming at her, as she gives a small bow.

He lets go of her hand and they film a quick toss back to studio, a few different takes, including one where one of the zombies is lurking in the background that has her anxious the whole way through.

They have a flight to catch in two hours, and she's not ashamed to admit that she runs to the car when they're done.

&&.

By the time they land in New York and she's in a cab back to her apartment, she has 27 unread messages between Ruby and Elsa.

She'd assumed they were more of the YouTube comments section, but what she finds is that any charitable thoughts she'd had about August are wildly misplaced.

There, on her phone, is a screenshot of August's personal Instagram account, the one she _knows_ only had a few hundred followers last week and is now up to 2,000, thanks, undoubtedly, to the first photo in his stream.

It's a close up of two people holding hands, literally just the hands and wrists visible, but between her buttercup tattoo and Killian's rings and bracelet, it's clear who they belong to.

He'd only written "They're alive!" with the Tonight Show hashtag, but the comment section is rife with speculation that he'd meant, like, the two of them as a _couple_ are _alive_ , not that they'd physically survived the zombies.

Instagram indicates that she's logged in under her personal account, not the show one, and she briefly considers commenting, but if she'd learned anything from the Neal debacle — and, frankly, she had learned plenty — it was that the paparazzi took the lady doth protesting too much to heart.

Of course, the lady _not_ protesting goes a long way, too, as she learns the following morning, when she realizes her finger had apparently slipped and she'd liked the photo — as the numerous screen grabs of her activity demonstrate.

All fucking week.

&&.

The next three Triple H — haunted house and hamburgers — Mondays go by in sort of a blur.

As it turns out, Halloween falls on a Friday this month, so they only need to film four, and the fifth day of that week will be their actual Halloween show.

There'd been a vampire castle, a mental asylum, and some sort of horror movie mash-up, and though none of them had topped the zombies for just flat out, pants-pissingly terrifying, she'd still found herself holding Killian's hand at various points in each of them.

It's mostly the closest she's let herself get to him in the past two months, repeatedly turning down opportunities to get close to him, the closer she actually got.

Which is to say, that the closer they're becoming, the more aggressive she is about cutting it off.

They're at friends. They've made it to friends. And she needs to fucking stop there.

The rampant speculation about them is more rampant every single day, with every single show they banter their way through.

The in-studio social media wall even shows a mosaic of pictures where they themselves are one of this year's trendy costumes for couples, photo after photo of dark-haired men and blonde women drunkenly hanging on each other in the Halloween party lead up to the actual day.

It's — well. It's a lot.

And though Killian has been nothing but (his own brand of) a gentleman, she can't imagine he's enjoying it much more than she is.

There'd been a hotel room situation in Georgia, their next house after the zombies, a mix-up where they'd somehow both been assigned the same room, and, too tired to fight it after a grueling evening being chased by vampires, they'd just...shared it.

Two sizable beds, a big bathroom with a separate door, it hadn't seemed like _that_ much of a big deal, right up until it was 2 a.m. and she was in the middle of a long talk in a dark room with a man the country thinks she's dating, or should.

She'd heard about Liam, his brother back home, how he has a Google Alert set up on Killian, how proud he is, and how Killian's just trying to do right by the man that raised him, but also how hard it was not even being on the "same bloody continent."

(If she'd looked up when National Sibling Day was, found it was in April, and moved onto thoughts of a family-based Thanksgiving surprise show instead, well, that was her business.)

In turn, she'd shared about Neal, wading in with the easy stuff about the scandal of dating the son of a network executive, and moving on to how he'd almost cost her her career as he'd been flipping proprietary information to competing networks for a kickback.

Killian had listened, threatened violence where appropriate, and she'd fallen asleep to the sound of his steady breathing, the scent of his cologne still lingering in the bathroom when she'd gotten up to pee at 4 a.m.

It was that trip that had made her beg Mary Margaret to make sure the next two didn't include overnight stays, armed with a thick stack of papers indicating their climbing viewership numbers as ammo.

Mary Margaret had relented with some sort of infuriating, knowing smile and then distracted them both with an official announcement of her pregnancy.

And all of that to lead them to here — the morning of their Halloween show and two hours to taping.

Ruby, being Ruby, had somehow managed to convince Emma that she had a right to keep her costume a secret, something that hadn't seemed like a hill Emma was ready to die on weeks ago, but now seems like fucking Gettysburg.

"I don't know what you're so worried about, Emma, I adhered to all your rules."

"Great, all _two_ of them, nothing offensive and nothing topical. To be clear, if I'm the poop emoji, you're fired."

"Oooh, this could be fun, do you wanna guess?"

"That better mean it's not the poop emoji, but no, I don't wanna guess. Just show me."

With a drumroll created by the slapping of her hands on the counter as she moves, Ruby unzips the garment bag to reveal a —

— pink dress?

"You're Andie! You know, like Molly Ringwald? Pretty in Pink?" Ruby crows, producing a red wig from a cupboard.

"Oh — oh, okay, wow, I don't actually hate that."

"Glowing praise from my boss, please make sure to write that in my review."

"We don't do reviews, but, like, no, seriously, this is really cool."

"I thought so," Ruby says, still beaming. "The whole crew is John Hughes movies actually." She grabs a long coat and a pair of fingerless gloves from the wardrobe rack. "You're looking at John Bender."

"You're hotter than Judd Nelson."

"I'm really not."

"I know, what was it about him? God."

"Anyway, Mary Margaret is Ally Sheedy, David is Emilio Estevez —"

It goes like this for the rest of the hour, the full cast rundown devolving into a movie quote competition and before Emma can realize Killian's been omitted, she's dressed and being called to the stage.

&&.

It's not entirely unheard of for Killian not to be on stage by the time Emma gets there — occasionally he's a part of an opening bit or he's working through an arrangement with a guest.

What _is_ unheard of is for the _entire_ band to be missing, and for an Otis Redding song to begin playing over the sound system before Emma can even start her monologue.

It takes maybe ten seconds of Emma standing center stage to realize exactly what this is, and as soon as she does, Killian is skidding in front of her, in full Duckie Dale regalia, complete with bolo tie, mustard-colored blazer, and white loafers.

His hair is even up in a little pompadour — not that she can see it very well with the way he's gyrating and dancing around the stage, lip-syncing in full Jon Cryer theatricality to 'Try a Little Tenderness.'

This is exactly the sort of thing she likes to be briefed for, so she can prepare, and the preparation this time would've been to school her features into something other than the wide smile that's making her cheeks hurt as she follows him around the stage.

Killian, for his part, looks super into it, like he's just having a goddamn ball, and it literally feels like something unlocks in her chest, some tightness she didn't even realize was there until it left.

She feels a rush of affection for him that she can't possibly process, this doofy, handsome man, not afraid to make her laugh — and she knows that's what this is — this isn't about Ruby, or the audience, or anyone else. This is about her, and the smile he's reflecting right back to her every time he passes by.

When the song winds down, it brings Killian to his knees in front of her, his chest heaving, as he sparkles a grin up at her before turning to the audience.

"Welcome to Halloween at the Tonight Show, everybody," he says, and the crowd fucking _loses_ it.

&&.

Technically their Halloween night ends at about 7 p.m., right as everybody else in the city is ramping up, and it's going to bring out the sort of crowds Emma would normally be inclined to avoid — but there's something in the air tonight, everybody in their costumes, still riding the high of having the entire crew on stage for the goodbyes, that makes her agree when August says they're all going for a drink.

It's a costume-required sort of thing, apparently, and so they all troop out of the studio in their get-ups, Ruby leading the way with her gloved fist raised high in the air, Bender style.

Killian drops back to walk by Emma's side just as they're passing by a couple dressed as _them_ , but the show hasn't aired yet, and they slip by unnoticed in their costumes.

"That's weird, right?" Killian says. "Not just me?"

"No, yeah, it's definitely weird."

"Are you, um. Do you regret it? Bringing me on?"

He looks slightly bashful, refusing to meet her eye as they walk, mostly speaking to the sidewalk.

"Killian, our numbers are up a full nine percent and we're going into sweeps next month. I could absolutely hate the sight of your face and still not regret bringing you on with numbers like those."

He hmms, stepping closer to her to avoid a subway grate, something she's seen him do before, and she spares a thought for all the weird Killian Jones trivia she's amassed in the last sixty days.

"I don't though," she tacks on when Killian doesn't continue the conversation.  

"Don't what?"

"Hate the sight of your face."

He looks at her for a second, something soft and anticipatory in his gaze, but then he shakes his head.

"How could you? Look at this," he says, gesturing to the whole of his face.

"You're literally wearing a bolo tie."

"Yeah, and it's working for me. Don't lie, Swan."

"In your dreams, Jones."

"Indeed, with alarming frequency." And with that, he jogs up ahead to join Mary Margaret and David where they're attempting to do that heel-toe-heel-toe shuffle from The Breakfast Club.

He nails it, first try.

&&.

(That night when she gets back to her apartment, there's a giant Ziploc bag on her welcome mat, full of pink Laffy Taffy and pink Starburst.

There's a fake severed hand hidden in the middle, the words **_Happy Halloween, Swan_** written across the palm in Sharpie.

She snaps a picture, uploading it to Instagram without a single second thought.)

(The next afternoon Killian updates his own account for the first time in more than a year — a pink pile of wrappers and the caption _Swan was here._ )

&&.

Sweeps arrive in a flurry of A-list guests and powerhouse bands.

Killian loses his mind for Muse, and then loses it even _more_ for Pearl Jam — she'd seen him taking a selfie in front of the sign on Eddie Vedder's door, so she'd snuck her own photo and put that on Instagram, too, hashtag _fanboy_.

It's worth whatever's going on in the comments section about them when Vedder invites him on stage to sing Corduroy, and she's not even mad when they have to cut her clip of surprising old people eating alone in restaurants for it to air.

She's not avoiding getting close to him anymore, mostly because it's logistically impossible — they're increasingly asked to do promo together, and somehow they even end up co-hosting the fourth hour of the TODAY Show with Kathie Lee and Hoda.

Killian seems to be taking to all of it with an enviable grace, but there are moments she can hear him through the dressing room walls, Skyping with his brother while she Skypes with Elsa, and as Thanksgiving nears, she revisits the idea of a family reunion bend to the Thanksgiving episode.

Getting Elsa to come for Anna and Kristoff (and Emma herself) is easy, arranging for Granny to have the time off from the cafeteria for Ruby, a similar cake walk.

She's like a dog with a bone about it, leaving no familial stone unturned, until they've booked about fifteen flights and she has to face the reason she'd put the whole plan in motion in the first place — Killian's brother.

It takes some covert maneuvers, waiting for Killian to finish a Skype call and leave his dressing room before slipping in behind him and hitting redial on the most recent call.

Killian's icon is a picture of him in a t-shirt and jeans, on stage with a guitar and she only tries twice ( _cough_ four times _cough_ ) to make it bigger. But the call is connecting to a photo of a good-looking, curly-haired guy in a blue sweater, 'Liam Jones' written beneath it.

(Of course Killian is the type to put contacts in by their full names — of _course_ he is.)

She can hear Liam before the video kicks in, an accented voice laughing. "You've told her already? That's either a good sign or a bad one — oh. Um, you're not Killian, are you?"

"I don't think so," she says, quickly checking the video feed of herself in the corner, and trying to pretend she hadn't gone into make up early for just this very reason.

"I'd say not," Liam says, "or he's had a very eventful thirty seconds."

"Yeah, it, uh, sounded like you thought he had — what was that about?"

(Because it sounded like it was about a girl...and _she's_ a girl...and...fucking stop it, Emma.)

Liam raises an eyebrow, a gesture so similar to Killian that she smiles before she can stop herself.

"Right, not my business."

"Mmm, perhaps. But I wager it's not the reason you rang either way."

"Uh, no, it's not. I'm Emma, hi, I work with Killian."

"I know who you are, Miss Swan."

She laughs, trying to smother her nerves. "Ah, yeah, I guess 'Tonight Show host' is less inconspicuous than I usually think."

Liam nods. "Sure, but I was speaking about my brother's references to you."

She feels her eyebrows raise and she works to keep her voice from doing the same. "Oh? He talks about me?"

"Is that why you called? Do you want to know if he _likes_ you?" Liam's voice is teasing, putting her off her carefully rehearsed game.

"Uh."

"Because to hear the press tell it, he more than likes you."

That sets her right again, snapping back from whatever she may or may not have been thinking about.

"Yeah, well, don't believe everything you read. Listen, what are you doing in two weeks?"

Liam, for his part, doesn't give anything away, barely batting an eye. "I can't say that I have any firm plans. Why? Did you have a suggestion?"

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I do. What do you think about a free trip to America?"

Liam smiles.

&&.

It takes for-fucking-ever for Thanksgiving to arrive, to the point where every single one of Emma's most visited browser sites — on her phone _and_ her laptop — are replaced with various calendar, flight, and hotel pages.

But it does arrive, finally. Or, well, Wednesday arrives. They'll all have the long weekend off, starting with Thursday, and if all goes according to plan, most of her staff will have family to spend it with.

She's so nervous for the monologue and the explanation of the surprises in store that she nearly trips on the curtain walking out, but she pushes through it, getting through the first handful of family member surprises without flubbing a single name.

Elsa's sharing the main band mic with Killian, and it's been great for the entire five minutes it's been happening, right until Elsa, as secretly scripted, winks at Emma, grabbing the mic from Killian entirely.

"You know what? This isn't working. Why don't you go sit on the couch?"

Killian looks confused, glancing back and forth between Elsa, the audience, and Emma, but when he catches sight of the way Emma's smiling encouragingly, he shrugs, and makes his way to the chair closest to Emma's desk.

"Hello, Swan," he says, sliding into the chair, and propping his ankle up on his opposite knee as the crowd goes wild.

(His habit of calling her 'Swan' is a perennial fan favorite, and they both know it.)

"Hey, Killian," she says, and then moves to cover the fake mic on her desk as she stage whispers to him, "How do you think the show's going so far?"

"Oh, I think it's going quite well, don't you?" Killian's hamming it up for the audience, she can tell, and she plays right into it.

"Fair to middling, at least. Do you wanna be a part of it?"

"Certainly, shall I introduce the next guest?" he says, eyes darting to the monitor for the script cue, the one Emma knows isn't coming.

"I was thinking...something bigger."

"Sorry?"

"I think we have —," and here she presses her finger to her ear, like she's listening to Mary Margaret on the in-ear, which, technically she is, but it's Mary Margaret's sing-songy voice saying, ' _You looooove him_ ,' more than any actual direction. "Yep, I was right, we do, folks, let's welcome our next guest to the stage, ladies and gentlemen, Liam Jones!"

Killian's foot drops from his leg in one moment and then he's on his feet in the next, pivoting back and forth between the curtain and stage right, looking for his brother.

The mustachioed guy in the hat who'd been introduced at the top of the show as Anna's Great Uncle Lewis peels off his facial hair on the band stand, tossing his hat in Killian's direction before setting down the bass he'd been (surprisingly, actually) playing.

Killian's eyes widen and then he's across the stage. "You were up there the _whole time_ , you wanker?" His arms wrap around his brother and Emma can just see over Liam's shoulder the look on Killian's face.

He's fucking _glowing_.

The crowd is going haywire and Emma can't keep herself from smiling wide enough that she feels her make up pulling at her skin.

It's a great moment.

Emma calls them both over to her desk, slipping out from behind it to greet Liam, who ignores her extended hand in favor of a hug.

"Thank you," he murmurs in her ear.

She smiles back, and directs them both into their seats, stopped only by Killian's hand on her arm, squeezing tight as he looks at her with a face full of gratitude and joy.

There's an interview to do, goofy questions about Killian as a kid, complete with baby pictures, but it all goes by so quickly.

Before she can clock it, the show is over, and she's being pulled into a massive hug from Killian while Liam looks on.

"Well done with this one, little brother. Best boss you've ever had," Liam says.

Killian looks at her, eyes still sparkling with just as much emotion as they always are, and how does he even _do_ that?

"Yeah," he says. "She is."

&&.

Turns out, inviting Liam to the Thanksgiving show means she's earned herself an invite to Killian's Thanksgiving dinner.

Typically she'd go to Mary Margaret's, in fact, she'd _planned_ to go to Mary Margaret's, but there's an oversight, blamed on "pregnancy brain" that means the Nolans will be in New Jersey and Emma will be...at Killian's.

"Can I bring anything?" she asks, on the phone first thing in the morning.

"I didn't know you could cook, Swan."

"I definitely  _can_ , thanks, but I meant more, like, throwing an appalling amount of money at Dean & Deluca."

"Are they even open today?"

"They're doing turkey deliveries, I'm sure for the right price one of them could just...fall into the hands of your doorman."

Killian laughs on the other end, a deep, rich sound that she pretends doesn't make her feel anything. "No need to go turkey black market, love, I think we've got it covered."

"All right, uh, what time should I be over then? And where do you live?"

He gives her the address and a time frame for, "at least an hour from now."

("I may wake up devilishly handsome, love, but we've got to give Liam some time to get his face on.")

(There's a definite smacking noise on the other end.)

&&.

The weirdest part of being at Killian's comes after Liam's second warning to can it with the shop talk.

She's seen Killian outside the walls of the studio, of course, but there's always been at least some work context — the presence of coworkers, a field shoot, _whatever_ — but this is something else entirely.

This is Emma taking over the mashed potato making and scowling at Killian when he swipes a finger through them.

This is Liam catching his brother up on people that Emma doesn't know, from a whole different country.

This is watching two Englishmen fumble their way through what is apparently their first American Thanksgiving.

This is Emma on the couch, close enough to Killian that his arm along the back of the cushions brushes her shoulders while they watch Die Hard.

This is...not awful.

Not even a little bit.

&&.

Liam's visit had wrapped up over a touristy weekend that somehow Emma found herself a part of, Central Park and frozen hot chocolate and tickets to a play she can't even remember for the way Killian had twined his fingers with hers during the second act.

Whatever weird, slow burn thing they're playing at, she simultaneously wants a fire extinguisher and a can of gasoline.

It's not helped by the way Liam pulls her aside on Sunday night, eyes locked with hers, and says, "He _does_ like you, you know."

In that moment, Emma doesn't feel like a talk show host or a celebrity or even a fucking _adult_ , she feels about 12 years old, trying to decide if he's worth those cooties Elsa had mentioned all those months ago.

Only it's not _exactly_ cooties, it's her life and emotions and, frankly, the livelihood of a few dozen staffers if it goes wrong.

Their numbers for November sweeps had put them up a solid 13 percent year-over-year and they're projected to hit Mary Margaret's promised 20 by the time February sweeps roll around.

But...February seems a lifetime away, plenty of time for a thousand good intentions to pave the way to hell and she'd do better to back off, right?

 _Right_?

&&.

December in the city is one of Emma's favorite things, the big tree and the Rockettes and just the general spirit of Christmas permeating the air.

There are exactly eight sprigs of mistletoe littering the studio and it's a complicated series of elevators and stairs and back hallways to avoid them when she's walking with Killian.

It's enough of an ordeal that she literally bought a FitBit, claiming she needed to "get her steps in" by the second week — something Killian has apparently taken to heart, leading her on meandering lunchtime walks around the city, which ends up being more dangerous than the mistletoe.

Their profile as a potential couple has risen — in the eye of the media and the public — to that of clearly an actual couple who just refuses to acknowledge it, and there'd been more than a few not _entirely_ subtle encouragements from Mary Margaret on embracing it for the way it's helping her viewership.

Which is how she ends up walking through Rock Center holding Killian's hand at least three times a week, which is that worse-than-the-mistletoe part.

At least with forced kissing under the guise of a holiday tradition, there's an endpoint and a way to get her footing, but right now, as Killian tucks her hand into the pocket of his peacoat, she feels like she's constantly in limbo.

"It's Monday," he says, as they watch the people try to navigate the rink, a group of teenage boys falling over and over again, much to the delight of a group of teenage girls.

"Yeah, I know, Ruby was playing the fucking _Bangles_ in the rundown meeting."

"'Manic Monday?'"

"Yeah."

Killian laughs, eyes glancing back to the rink and skaters.

"You're itching to make a 'Hazy Shade of Winter' joke, aren't you?

He grins and she knows she's got him, but then he's shaking his head. "Taunt you on Hamburger Day? I wouldn't dare."

"Smart move, buddy," she says, but only because it's expected.

The truth is both of them, by some sort of mutual, unspoken agreement, have backed off on the more outlandish topping choices. For Emma's part, at least, because there's always a thin current running between them, the thread of possibility that this is gonna be _the_ day, and the last thing she needs when her hormones finally get the best of her is for Killian to taste like relish.

Right now, with the candy cane in his mouth, he'd taste like peppermint, and she can't say it's an unappealing thought.

"Back to the grind?" Killian says, fingers tightening around Emma's hand where it still sits in his coat pocket.

"Let's go."

&&.

It's an ambush.

The very last show of the year, the last one before a four week holiday break slash hiatus, and she's being _ambushed_.

It's a last minute substitution on the game they're playing, something about how the snow machine they'd rented is malfunctioning and suddenly, in the middle of filming, Emma's watching in horror as a giant, well-built Mistletoe Roulette wheel is being rolled on stage.

(" _Last minute_ " Emma's lily white ass, Mary Margaret.)

But still, it starts all in good fun, a heavy bit of audience participation that can't possibly last.

It's not until what's supposed to be the very last spin, when the audience starts up a chant of _Emma's turn, Emma's turn, Emma's turn_ that she gets the confirmation that this has all been an elaborate set up.

The rules are simple — spin the wheel, if it lands on holly, you get a Christmas gift package, if it lands on mistletoe, you kiss a person of your choosing, right there in the middle of center stage.

She can see, out of the corner of her eye, David doing _something_ behind the wheel, something that involves removing panels and adding new ones, and there's not a fake snowball's chance in hell that every single one of those slices doesn't now picture mistletoe.

There's no way out of this, and they're running too short on time for Emma to even put up the most perfunctory of protests — Kevin Hart is waiting somewhere backstage and Mary Margaret is gesturing meaningfully (and menacingly) from behind camera three.

The intention is clear — Emma will do this, and Emma will pick Killian.

With an overbright smile, she makes her way to the wheel, shaking her arm out, before giving it a big spin.

When it stops and the panel door is pulled away to reveal mistletoe, Emma sees two choices:

There's choice one, where she lets the audience wheedle her into picking Killian and she gives him a basic, polite peck on the mouth.

And then there's choice two — just fucking _going for it_.

As a Christmas present to herself, she goes with choice two.

Turning on her heels, she crooks a finger at Killian, beckoning him forward to the whoops and hollers of the audience.

He comes with a raised eyebrow, practically sauntering across the stage until he's swaying into her personal space.

With the entire place mic'd up to the teeth, he can't exactly speak to her, but he does mouth the words, "All right?"

Taking a deep breath, she nods, and he moves in even closer, until she's forced to tilt her head to accommodate his coming toward her.

"Better make it good then," he mumbles in the space between their mouths, and then his lips are pressed to hers.

There's a moment where all the sound in the studio drops out entirely, where every part of her body that isn't touching Killian fades away, and then, as he parts his lips against hers, it all comes roaring back.

The audience shouting, Killian's hands cupping her face, her own hands gripping his hair, and if this is the only gift she'll give herself this year, she's damn well going to make it count, so she swipes her tongue against his bottom lip, just a quick glance of a touch, but enough that she feels his responding noise somewhere in her chest.

They can't go much further than this, not on camera, not in front of the audience, but, not to be outdone, Killian's arm slides down until it's across her back and he's bending her backward over it, literally fucking _dipping_ her on national television.

Surprised, her hands tighten in Killian's hair, hard enough to pull, but the noise he makes in response is telling, the sort of thing she can file away next to the way his dressing room is always spotless and that he seems to have an aggressive amount of plaid shirts — Killian Jones likes his hair pulled.

When he brings her up out of the dip, they part in tandem, Killian looking awed and destroyed and she can see in the monitor behind him that she doesn't look much better.

"That was —" he starts, but then Mary Margaret is on stage, shooing them both back to their respective positions to reset after what will be a commercial break.

"Happy Christmas, Swan," Killian calls when he's back on the bandstand.

"Merry Christmas, Killian."

&&.

If Christmas in New York is her favorite thing, New Year's in New York is the exact opposite.

The city's a zoo, people are weird, and she's more than happy to stay locked up in her apartment, drinking beer and overtipping the  Seamless guy.

It's something of a tradition, if she's honest, and at the very least, it's a routine, one even Mary Margaret respects, which is why, when there's a knock on her door, she doesn't have a clue who it could it be — other than maybe Seamless again.

(The side of cheese sauce was definitely missing from her fries, and she wasn't going to say anything, but if they've figured it out on their own, well, she's not gonna complain.)

This is how she opens the door braless, in black leggings, and one of Killian's flannels (snaked from his dressing room as a second Christmas present to herself) to find the man himself standing on her welcome mat.

"Uh, hey, Killian."

"Swan," he nods at her, pushing off the opposite wall where he'd been leaning. "Is that one of my shirts?"

"No."

"Where'd you buy it?"

"The...Gap. Uniqlo. You know, I think it's Saint Laurent, actually." She makes a show of twisting to try and see the tag, but he's just smirking at her, all smug and handsome.

"You can keep it — it looks good."

"Oh. Um. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Listen, Swan, can I come in?"

She looks over her shoulder, the wreckage of her meal on the coffee table and the TV playing an old Office rerun, it's not much, but when she looks back to Killian, he seems alarmed, or maybe upset.

"Do you — I mean — do you have someone over? Should I go?"

"No, no, that's...it's just the TV, here, come on in."

Killian follows her into her apartment, whistling low at the view from her windows before rocking awkwardly on his heels.

"You can sit down," she says. "Do you want something to drink?"

His eyes dart over the coffee table as he seats himself on the couch, and he gestures at her beer. "One of those is fine, if you have it."

She grabs his beer and another for herself, the one on the coffee table had been getting warm anyway, before joining him on the couch.

"Not to be rude, but...what are you doing here?"

He shrugs, taking a long pull of his beer in a way that makes her lick at her teeth when his throat muscles work to swallow it down.

She hadn't seem him since the end of that Christmas show, _deliberately_ hadn't seen him. And, in fact, had avoided all the fall out from it entirely, logging herself out of every single one of her social media accounts.

Sitting next to Killian now though, all that just seems sort of...useless.

There is no possible future where she's able to ignore this _thing_ forever.

Not least of all because Killian is also a sentient human being, capable of acting under his own volition, and forcing the issue.

Like he's apparently doing now.

"Don't tell the Queen, but I like your version better," he says, gesturing at the television and Steve Carell in full Michael Scott theatrics.

Or maybe not.

"Oh, right, yeah, the Queen follows me on Snapchat, I'm glad you mentioned that, or I'd be one filter away from ruining your life."

He laughs, reaching for a chunk of the soft pretzel lying on her table that also, frankly, could've benefitted from cheese sauce.

"Not to belabor the question, but, uh, seriously, what are you doing here?"

He shrugs again. "I don't actually know. I was Skyping with Liam — it's already the new year there, he says things are wonderful — and he was talking about how he'd gone round the pub, finally kissed the girl from his office he's had his eye on. And then I just...left. I started walking."

She doesn't know where to start with any of that, so she picks the next easiest question.

"Okay, but how do you even know where I live?"

With a scratch behind his ear, he looks sheepish. "Well, you've been photographed in front of your building before, I'd dropped off that candy before, and then I was here, and the doorman was so friendly — told me to tell you his wife loved the spa gift certificate — and then I don't know, I think I confirmed which one was yours?

Honestly, Swan, it's all a bit of a blur. I can go, if you'd like?"

"No," she says, much too quickly. "I mean, no, no, it's fine, you're here now and it's — what? Forty minutes til midnight? Gonna be a mess out there."

"Aye, it was."

"Cool, so just...hang out. Eat."

"This is quite the spread," he says, going back for another piece of pretzel.

"Yeah, _treat yo self_ , like the kids say."

"Do the kids say that?"

She shrugs. "Some kids, probably."

"Whatever you say, Swan."

"Look, I don't know if you know this, but I'm a trendsetter, I'm in with the in-crowd."

"Are you now?"

"I am indeed."

"And what is someone 'in with in-crowd' doing home alone on New Year's Eve?"

The wince zips across her face before she can catch it, but Killian definitely does, immediately rushing to apologize.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I just...I was surprised you were home actually. I thought you might've had work or an appearance to put in or — if there was...someone."

He's set it up so nicely, just perfectly teed up  a nice little segue and it's too tempting not to go for it. Maybe her New Year's resolution can be to be a little more reckless.

"Well...there's not  _no one_." She angles her body away from the tv and toward him, trying to catch his eye.

"So there is...someone." He sets his beer back on the table and meets her eye contact.

"There might be." She can feel herself leaning closer to him, the couch cushions shifting underneath her as she tries to press through the thickness in the air.

"And does he know that he's...someone?"

"You'd have to ask him."

"Swan, is this — are we — ?"

She scoots nearer, swallowing as he matches her movement, and it brings his jaw close enough for her to kiss, and she does, laying a gentle but firm brush of her lips against the stubbled skin.

"Are we what?" she murmurs against him.

He nudges his nose against hers before pressing their foreheads together, and she can feel the warmth of him, the faint smell of beer, as he breathes in the space between their mouths.

"Are we doing this?"

"Do you want to?" She presses another kiss to the side of his mouth.

"Is it a good idea?"

"Is it a bad one?" she shoots back.

"No," and with that, he slants his lips over hers, rocketing right past the preamble and into slipping his tongue into her mouth.

She meets him immediately, her hand knotting in his hair while his does the same thing in hers, both of them shifting, mouths opening wider, tongues stroking deeper, hot and wet and _incredible_.

It's been a long time since she's made out with a man on her couch, but Killian is rapidly jogging her memory, the noises he's making against her mouth, the hard planes of his chest, the way he smells, and feels, and tastes.

His hands find her hips, anchoring themselves, before urging her up on and to his lap to straddle him.

Her leggings are thin and his jeans are rough, his erection rising against his zipper the more she grinds down into him, bracing herself with arms draped around his shoulders.

She feels fingertips on the skin of her back, Killian's hands skating from her hips to slip under the back of her stolen shirt, up, up, up, and back down, down, down, until she feels him pull back, speaking against her lips.

"No bra, Swan?"

"Wasn't expecting company."

"Well," he says, pressing a kiss to her neck, "allow me to make up for the intrusion then." His mouth continues working down the length of her throat, nosing aside the collar of her shirt until his teeth can get at the join of her neck and shoulder, and he worries it with his teeth, making her buck against him.

Her fingers tighten in his hair and he makes the same noise as before, the same pleased groan, and before she can comment, his hands have slipped around her ribs and up to cup her breasts.

He tests the weight of them, squeezing gently and then not as gently, a series of movements that seem more for his benefit than for hers, right up until he gets to her nipples, and then the pinching, the tweaking, the caressing and gauging and testing, is _definitely_ for her.

"Can I — Swan, can I see?" His voice is low and throaty as his hands slip out from her shirt, stopping on the button fastened right over her breasts.

"Yeah," she pants, "yeah, take it off."

His fingers set off down the trail of buttons without hesitation, undoing them all in rapid succession until she's able to shrug the shirt off, aided by the way he's tugging it from behind.

" _Emma_ ," he sighs, his hands rising to cup her breasts once more. "You're gorgeous."

She can't wrestle out any words in response to that, instead settling her fingers back in his hair and tugging his mouth to her chest.

He follows directions so wonderfully, so perfectly, that she can barely fathom that there was a time when she thought he fought her on things.

His tongue and teeth and lips work against her nipples, taking turns while his hands fill in the gaps, until she's practically writhing in his lap, her fingers curling in the flannel of his shirt and tugging up.

He backs off only long enough to tug his shirt over his head, the fact that he didn't have to stop to undo a single button a testament to just how few were done in the first place.

When he's through, he kisses her again, his tongue stroking into her mouth while her chest brushes against his.

There's a little maneuvering, but they manage to arrange it so she's stretched out down the length of the couch, legs wrapped around his hips while he anchors himself on his forearms above her.

Their hips are already miles ahead of them, rutting and bucking like there's a prize for the person who can come in their pants first.

Her hands slip down to his ass, into his back pockets, only to discover her place is already taken by his wallet and phone.

"Bloody fuck," he mumbles against her neck, twisting until he can get both out, tossing them onto the coffee table next to the remains of her meal.

She immediately slips her hands back down, grabbing a handful of denim and cloth as she grips his ass and guides him into a rhythm.

There's a brief, passing thought to put a stop to this, they've only kissed once, and talked about all...this...even less, but they're both consenting adults and it feels _so_ good, god, it feels really fucking good, and she just, she — _**wants**_.

"Do you want to — the bed?" She gets the question out in between sucking kisses his to his shoulder and scratches down his back.

"Aye," he returns, from somewhere near her collarbone.

She nudges him up and he goes easily, standing in front of her with a thick bulge in his jeans and a thunderfucked expression on his face.

There's no particularly suave way to do this part, not in her experience, mostly just stumbling and pawing, and instead of even trying, she sets off toward the hall and her bedroom. "Come on."

He follows closely, waiting for her to reinitiate when they reach her room and she flips the switch that controls her bedside lamp.

"Are you sure about this, Emma?"

The gravity with which he says it makes her stop and consider, biting back the _yep, absolutely_ resting on the tip of her tongue.

This is — it's bigger than one night. This is someone she'll see every day, someone she works with, someone she considers a friend, and someone she — well. Someone she feels something for.

Everything that's led them to this point has felt like treading water, like they were moving but not quite getting anywhere and she just wants to _go_.

"Yeah," she says. "I am."

He lets out a breath, stepping closer to her until his hands rest on her bare waist, thumbs edging down to play with the band of her leggings.

"Are _you_ sure, Killian?"

"Swan, there are eighty banana Laffy Taffys slowly hardening in a bowl in my apartment. They don't sell just the strawberry."

She raises her eyebrows, pushing for an answer even as a smile overtakes her.

"I'm sure," he says.

With a nod, she moves her fingers to the bottom of his jeans, but when it becomes clear that getting his zipper down over his erection is going to require a delicate touch, she moves back to her own pants, shoving her leggings and underwear down and tugging them off along with her socks.

Killian's sneakers hit the floor with twin thumps and then his socks are off, his jeans and boxer briefs following in quick succession, until they're standing naked in front of each other in the lamplight.

"You're stunning, Swan."

She demurs, brushing her hands down the skin of her stomach before looking back at up him.

"You look —" she starts, but he cuts her off.

"I know."

And, _Jesus_ , is there a lot to know, hair and skin and bone, all these muscles and edges and his cock, god, his stupid hard, cock and the way she wants so badly to suck it.

She settles for reaching a hand out, a gentle stroke that turns further the second he arches into her.

"Fuck," he hisses, and, okay, wow, yeah, she wants more of that.

Swiping a foot out to drag her rug closer across the hardwood, she settles it in front of him before dropping to her knees.

When she looks up at him, his erection inches away from her mouth, he looks like he wants to protest but just can't bring himself to, and she rewards him with a slow lick along the underside of his cock before fitting her lips around the tip.

His entire body tenses, his hand fluttering around the back of her head until she nods and he settles it in her hair.

She works him slowly, taking him in by increments while her hand works alternately to keep him steady and tease his balls.

It's quick work to learn what he likes, he's far from quiet, and she's got him stammering a series of increasingly encouraging noises in a matter of minutes.

"You're bloody good at that," he hisses above her as her teeth scrape ever-so-softly against him on the pull back, only to be quickly replaced and soothed by her tongue.

She dips a finger behind his balls, just barely nudging the skin there and he lets out a noise she's going to be hearing in her sleep for _weeks_ , his hand fisting in her hair when she moves to take him deeper and do it again.

"Swan, _Emma_ , stop, god, fuck, c'mere."

He's urging her up and urging her back to the bed in one fluid movement, nodding for her to settle against the pillows as he settles between her legs.

His fingers find her core first, a few initial strokes that make it clear to both of them just how wet she really is.

When she's bucking against him, trying to get something inside of her, something in the way of friction, he spreads her wide and presses his tongue to her clit.

Her legs fall slack on either side of his head as he works, her fingers rifling through his hair while she tries to urge him faster, deeper, wetter, better.

He follows her every cue, working into a rhythm on her clit, a steady repeating pressure that he joins with one of his finger working its way inside of her.

She's close and getting closer, legs re-tensing as he builds and builds, wet sounds and the sight of his eyes looking up at her across the expanse of her stomach until it's too much and she slams her own eyes shut, reaching, reaching, reaching.

When it's close enough to really feel the build, he starts fucking _moaning_ against her, filthy sounds of enjoyment that do wonders for her impending orgasm, and then he's got a second finger inside of her, a more aggressive rhythm with his tongue against her clit, and she comes with a groan, rocking up until her back is curled toward him and her hands are tight in his hair.

He draws it out like a pro, working her down so slowly that it feels like it's been going on forever, right up until the moment that it's too much and she's squirming away from him.

There's a moment where she thinks he's just going to keep going and so she stops him, "Come fuck me," and he doesn't hesitate, wiping his mouth a hard kiss against the skin of her inner thigh before rising up over her and pressing his mouth to hers.

She kisses him back without any finesse, still lazy with the sparks of her orgasm in her veins, and he lets her set the pace, his cock resting against her, as he works her back up.

When a twist of his hips bring the tip of him inside of her, she has half a mind to let it go, she's on the pill, and he's so _good_ , but instead she pulls away from him, nudging him back and flinging her hand toward her nightstand.

He gets the point, fumbling in the drawer until he finds a condom and tears it open. He has to shift back onto his haunches to get it on, but he's back in a matter of moments, positioning himself with one hand while he braces himself on his opposite forearm.

"Still sure?" he says, dipping down to press a quick kiss to her lips.

"Yeah," she says.

With that, he pushes forward, one long, smooth stroke until he's fully inside of her and her legs wrap around his waist.

"You can move."

"Aye, I probably can."

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" She bucks her hips against his, in a move that isn't especially productive, but seems to get her point across.

"Like what?" he says, drawing back slowly only to push forward again at the same leisurely pace.

"Like you're a tease."

"Does this feel like teasing, Swan?" He swivels his hips, mouth moving to the join of her neck and shoulder so decisively that she's sure he's figured out that's a particularly weak spot.

"Yeah, it does." She tightens her legs around him, one hand gripping his ass while the other knots tight in his hair.

It has the desired effect, and he breathes out, "You win," against her throat before slipping into a rhythm.

He's got his hips angled enough to catch her clit on every pass, and the harder he goes, the faster he goes, the louder she gets.

"Fuck, god, _fuck_ , that's so good," she's mumbling beneath him, and he's answering her back each time, "Jesus, you feel so bloody good, you're so wet, fuck, fuck, fuck."

It's not the most articulate either of them have ever been, and the narration in her head is so much more coherent, but she can't get the words out in complete sentences, just aborted fragments, _like that_ and _harder_ and _please, fuck, god, don't stop_.

It's when Killian stops with the words entirely that she can tell he's close, just deep breathing and rumbling moans and, _christ_ , is it working for her.

He bites down hard at that same stupid weak point and she can't hold it back, shouting to the ceiling as she comes. Killian slams into her a handful more times before following after her, a wrecked, filthy grunt spilling from his lips to somewhere in her hair.

When his body immediately tenses like he's going to move off her, like she can't handle his weight, she wraps her arms around his back. "Don't move — just — don't move for a second."

He nods against her, the sweat on his forehead damp against her cheek.

They stay like that, wrapped up in each other for a couple of minutes more, until she nudges him away and he rolls to the side. She can't even rally the energy to curl into him, instead flinging her arm out until it lays across his chest.

He fits his fingers in between hers and she squeezes them. "Good job, Jones."

"Same to you, Swan."

She makes a trip to the bathroom a few minutes later, on sex-wobbled legs, and when she gets back, he's still lying naked across her comforter, his phone in his hand.

She's offended for all of a second, until he turns it around to face her, pointing at the time. "It's the new year."

"Well, happy new year then," she says, crawling onto the bed.

"You know they say that what you do at midnight is supposed to set the tone for the year."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So...sweaty and grunting, that can't be good."

"Oh, Swan, I think it's _very_ good."

&&.

They sleep together three more times before the hiatus ends, and christen his dressing room on their first day back.

Mary Margaret collects exactly $330 in bet money from various crew members and Archie gives them an inch-and-a-half thick manual on navigating your workplace relationship.

Emma's not quite sure how they know something's (finally) happened, except for Mary Margaret is like, scary perceptive, and Archie is, too, and also presumably ending her self-enforced dry spell probably adds a bit of a spring to her step.

That Elsa also notices when Emma is decidedly not walking, and not, in fact, moving at all, on a pixelated laptop camera is just gonna have to be chalked up to one of those Elsa _things_.

Or the fact that Kristoff's dressing room is next to Killian's.

&&.

February is a tense time.

They're within spitting distance of Mary Margaret's promised 20 percent, and Gold keeps sending increasingly condescending memos to the entire staff about housewives in the middle of Indiana responding negatively to the Euphemism Olympics and Tweets That Sound Dirty But Aren't.

She's fighting with Killian on Valentine's Day, a stupid fight that's almost entirely her fault and is down to her removing his ability to make his own choices.

It's awful enough that she actually calls Liam for advice, which is how she ends up buying tickets to an Arsenal exhibition game in the middle of California that isn't even going to happen until fucking _July_.

Apparently that commitment — that she'll still want to go somewhere with him in July — is worth even more than the soccer, and they make up in such a desperate way that Ruby's got her wearing turtlenecks and button-downs buttoned to the throat for an entire week.

&&.

By the time March...marches in, Emma's riding a slew of magazine covers, and Killian's bagged an interview with Rolling Stone.

Their numbers are hard to argue with, even for Gold, a full 24 percent year-over-year increase that literally sets the heavily pregnant Mary Margaret into a crying jag whenever it's mentioned.

&&.

On the anniversary of Elsa's leaving announcement, she shows up in the studio two hours before air, handing Emma a guitar to smash and making sure to take a photo of it this time.

The ensuing Instagram picture, Photoshopped to look like the cover of London Calling makes international news.

&&.

(There is a song called 'Marry Me, Emma,' after all — it's sung in their apartment three years after his first show.

Elsa's band plays their wedding.)


End file.
